


Newfound Respect

by tjstar



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fights, Friendship/Love, Homophobia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22435300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjstar/pseuds/tjstar
Summary: “One more song for the witcher!”Jaskier raises his hands in a defensive gesture.“Oh, no, no, no, we don’t want to bother our dear friend,” he says with a soft smile. “Let him rest after all the job he’s done. He killed a swamp monster!”The crowd applauds.Jaskier physically can’t hear Geralt’s eloquent‘hm-m’,but he’s sure hedoeshear it. Mentally.And everything is still far too good. Until it’s not.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 936
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	Newfound Respect

The tavern is chock-full of people drowning their sorrows and happiness in ale. Jaskier might really earn some coin at this point; he winks at Geralt who sits in the corner with a jug of beer, not paying attention to all the hustle. Geralt’s not bodyguarding him today, just watching; seeing the witcher nod in rhythm with the ballad is a pleasure. 

“One more!” shouts a man with a long black beard. 

Jaskier adjusts the strap of the lute on his shoulder. 

“One more?”

“One more! Come on, bard!” 

Everything’s going so well. _Amazing_ even. The viewers either don’t know his name or they don’t remember — although he didn’t hesitate to introduce himself when he came in, in a trademark Jaskier’s manner. He drinks in a trademark Jaskier’s manner until he can’t anymore. A woman shoves a heavy mug into his hands, cooing _cheers_ and _bottoms up._

“One more song for the witcher!”

Jaskier raises his hands in a defensive gesture. 

“Oh, no, no, no, we don’t want to bother our dear friend,” he says with a soft smile. “Let him rest after all the job he’s done. He killed a swamp monster!” 

The crowd applauds. 

Jaskier physically can’t hear Geralt’s eloquent _‘hm-m’,_ but he’s sure he _does_ hear it. Mentally. 

And everything is still far too good. Until it’s not. 

Until there’s a middle-aged man with his black hair gathered in a ponytail, he’s surrounded with his armed retinues as they enter the tavern, all dressed in black and golden clothes. Jaskier freezes with his lute cradled to his chest like a child, and prays silently not to be noticed by _them._ Otherwise, this might be his last performance. Sadly. He’s done enough things to be plagued for. He almost gets lost among the young girls with seductive smiles and sings for them — yet another love song with a happy ending — he’s a hopeless romantic. Or he’s just hopeless. With his peripheral vision, he sees Geralt getting up from the table; dim lights cast shadows all over his face, eyes gleam yellow in the dark. 

“Oh no,” Jaskier whispers in between the verses. “We’re screwed.” 

He keeps cherishing his hopes, he even thinks about sneaking out through the back door, when his song is interrupted by a loud clapping and a holler —

“Jaskier!” 

His hopes are crumpled like a paper crane. 

“Versal de Saint,” this name tastes like musty beer. “My father’s best friend. Should I feel honored already?”

Inside, Jaskier feels like he might die of a heart attack right there and then. Shivers of fear run up and down his spine when Versal de Saint says,

“You are pathetic, _Lettenwhore,”_ he takes a step towards him, rat eyes as black as coals. “Begging for coin in a shabby tavern? Of course, this is your style now. What else can you do since your father had left you with a bare ass? No inheritance, no nothing. How sad is that,” he wipes away a nonexistent tear. “I bet he wasn’t happy to find out that his only son was a _bugger.”_

The crowd gasps. 

“A bugger,” a girl with red braids murmurs. 

Another one stares at Jaskier, open-mouthed.

“This is a sin…”

Versal’s guards stand closer next to each other, glaring at Jaskier and his lute, and he doesn’t know what’s gonna get broken first: his precious instrument or his precious bones. He’s got some things to lose, still, but at the same time he can’t keep his tongue behind his chattering teeth.

“Huh, are you really gonna cry just because _you,_ yeah, you,” a finger pointed straight to Versal’s gold-covered chest. “Couldn’t get this beauty?” Jaskier rubs his own face. 

Somebody behind him laughs like a hyena. 

The worst part of it is that Geralt is, in fact, listening to the entire conversation, leaning to a wooden bar by the door, arms crossed and fists balled up, and Jaskier has never been lucky enough to avoid confrontations. But Jaskier is lucky enough to squat down right in time when an ugly mug full of beer gets smashed against the mold-covered wall right above his head. 

“Oh, you must be really pissed then,” he mutters to himself, looking around frantically to find a place to hide his lute. But the floor is suddenly too close, and his lungs are too empty as a steel-toed boot kicks him in the gut. Jaskier curls around the lute when the fight begins; Geralt throws three men aside and makes his way to Jaskier, he’s fast, too fast, but Jaskier gets punched in the kidneys so hard he sees the stars exploding in front of his eyes. 

“Leave off,” Geralt says, Geralt growls, helping the guards ‘leave off’ and slide down the two opposite walls; Jaskier is way too drunk to cooperate himself, so he only lets out a pained laughter and misses one more hit, in the ribs this time. 

The fight is like the epidemic that swallows everything on its way, digesting it and spitting out chaos. The air is gone; Jaskier sniffles, tasting copper on his lips, seeing droplets of blood on the floorboards as he raises his head. There are somebody’s teeth scattered around, yellow and rotten, and Jaskier scrambles away from a horrible sight. He can’t get up, pushing himself further in the corner of the tavern, almost ready to meet his death there. His jaw aches, skull feels too heavy when he hears the sound, typical for a massive table getting cracked with some loser’s back.

The owner of the tavern screams,

“Get the fuck out of here!”

Geralt is drunk, Jaskier can smell it in his breath as he bends down to pick him up, holding him by the back of his doublet like a newborn kitten. _Geralt hates cats,_ Jaskier thinks blankly. 

The night air is cold, Jaskier exhales a cloud into Geralt’s neck.

“You saved me,” he pants out. “You did it… Again… And I ruined everything… Again,” he laughs, he sobs, choking on his apologies. 

And the alcohol smacks him over his head again; his mind is all fogged when his shaking fingers reach to undo Geralt’s leather belt, his knees buckle as he breathes out,

“I just wanna thank you.”

“You’re drunk, Jaskier,” Geralt grouches.

“Yeah,” Jaskier nods. The lute’s still hanging behind his back. “You’re drunk too.”

Geralt doesn’t let him drop to his knees, on a cold ground even since he knows about Jaskier’s _past;_ Geralt just hums and hugs him tightly, keeping him upright. His hug is a vice grip, and Jaskier can’t do anything except smearing the blood from his nose all over Geralt’s chest. Geralt sighs. 

And Jaskier only needs to stop moving to pass out, apparently. 

***

Jaskier wakes up feeling like a battered flask being turned upside down repeatedly. He opens his itchy eyes, seeing the hooves and a dusty road underneath. Here comes the realization that he’s hanging across the saddle which smells like Roach and _troubles,_ and he’s about to spew out his entire stomach, rebelling inside of him. And so Jaskier does, trying to heave himself up as he spits out a mouthful of gastric acid and last night’s ale, hearing a tired _fuck_ before Roach stops. 

“Hold on.”

There’s the ringing in Jaskier’s ears, a nasty rush of blood to his head, so he might’ve misheard the phrase — it sounds too caring for the witcher. Geralt lifts him up with one hand and helps him get down by the side of the road where Jaskier’s stomach empties itself once again. He can’t bring himself to look in Geralt’s eyes, because he _remembers._ He remembers, and he aches pretty much everywhere; his ribs seem to be misplaced, reminding him of the battle _that_ _he lost_ with every inhale. His jaw is bruised, and even his desire to chat is gone. He acted dirty last night. And Geralt might feel dirty too. Even Jaskier’s ass hurts as if somebody tried to shove their boot inside —

 _A_ _bugger._

He leans forward not to stain his pants as he vomits again. Geralt pats his shoulder and turns away when Jaskier wipes his lips with his sleeve and staggers to the bushes to relieve his bladder. It’s quite awkward since he has to support himself against the tree with one hand, but here’s no blood, at least.

Jaskier expects a lecture. But Geralt remains silent as they climb back up on Roach. Geralt’s knuckles are covered with bloody scab, there’s a deep gash on his chin, brows furrowed, making Jaskier shudder. 

Sharp teeth of shame clank against his throat.

They don’t exchange a word until their next stop, by the river. The boulders are covered with moss, wet with morning dew gathering here and there like tiny brilliants. Jaskier doesn’t look at this beauty of nature, washing the dried blood from underneath his nose and staring at crimson droplets on his chest, blue fabric is ruined, it looks disgusting. Just like everything. 

Geralt rummages in his bag and gives Jaskier a small glass bottle. 

“Drink.”

“What is this?” Jaskier shakes it a little. 

Geralt doesn’t bother himself with explaining.

“Don’t ask, drink.”

Jaskier obeys.

The liquid is as yellow as Geralt’s eyes, it tastes like herbs and pepper, warming up his insides and dulling the pain in his muscles. The pounding in his head subsides little by little. His brain isn’t going to leak out of his ears when he hears the chirping of birds.

And Geralt suddenly says,

“I know what it feels like.”

Jaskier coughs, 

“You know what?”

“What it feels like,” Geralt repeats. “To be an outsider. A freak.”

A moment of silence after that. Jaskier keeps dreaming of Geralt’s hands on his shoulders, on his back — he could’ve strangled him to death, break all of his bones, squeeze his sinful soul out of his body. Or call him the worst traveling companion. But instead, Geralt just asks, 

“What’s your real name?”

Jaskier tosses a flat stone into the river. It jumps three times before drowning. _Just like me,_ he thinks. 

“You don’t wanna know that.”

“I do,” Geralt turns to him harshly.

Jaskier doesn’t flinch.

“You will not even remember it.”

 _“You_ can try.”

Geralt’s stone keeps jumping until it crosses the river.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove,” Jaskier gives up. “Call me that and I swear I’ll slap you across the face.”

Geralt spirals down into another moment of brooding.

“So this is…”

“...true,” Jaskier finishes for him. 

You should be deaf or dead not to know his father and his cruelty towards his wife and his servants. Jaskier doesn’t need to dwell on details, because Versal de Saint — Jaskier used to call him Versal _de Satan_ in his head — had said enough for Geralt to come to certain conclusions. Love songs Jaskier writes about women will never cover his affairs with men. And Geralt is going to kill him if he finds out about his feelings. Or about all those times Jaskier had to flirt with pretty girls to make him jealous. Or when Jaskier was jealous himself. Jaskier is indeed cursed. 

“Versal de Saint _accidentally_ got both of his legs broken,” Geralt says. “And I don’t think he’d ever talk to anyone again. Or even remember your fucking name. It’s hard to think with your skull caved in.” 

“Oh gosh,” Jaskier winces. “He wanted to… buy me like a brothel girl. A _night_ for his silence since he was the first to know… About me. I said no. No one dares say no to him. So he went straight to my father, and… Here I am, having nothing except for my lute. Oh, and my empty pockets, of course.”

Geralt hurls another stone into the river.

“It’s not your fault.”

Jaskier feels like he might throw Geralt’s pity back up. 

*** 

They manage to find the room before the sunset. Still together, still sharing a saddle and the water from the flask. 

The inn’s owner doesn’t expect late guests — the girl he’s spending the evening with reluctantly gets off of his lap and adjusts her corset, then waving at Geralt and Jaskier in a coquet way. They ignore her as the owner burps out the odor of garlic and vodka and says,

“One room with one bed, take it or get out.”

The price is probably too high, but Geralt agrees without bargaining. They go to their room with the girl’s laughter banging against their backs. 

There’s a wooden tub in the corner, the water is still warm, and Jaskier’s joints scream for warmth, his back especially. 

“Go first,” Geralt grumbles. “You look worse than a dead kikimora.”

 _No need to repeat it,_ Jaskier smirks as he passes the mirror. The potion helped, but the bruises are still littering his sides; he doesn’t want Geralt to see him like this, a flower crashed underneath the devil’s hooves. 

Jaskier’s soiled clothes fall to the floor.

“Didn’t know you had scars,” Geralt raises an eyebrow. 

And, before Jaskier can cover himself, Geralt’s fingers slide down jagged white welts across Jaskier’s shoulder blades. 

“Oh. These,” Jaskier swallows though his throat is suddenly as dry as a desert. “My dear father’s favorite cane had a sharpened rose-shaped bronze knob.”

Old memories surface again, that night when his father found out about Jaskier’s secret place where he used to _have fun_ with Antoine, their gardener’s young assistant. Both of them barely turned seventeen, and since then Jaskier’s father didn’t stop trying to beat the _disease_ out of him. Needless to say he’s never heard from Antoine ever again. Jaskier left the Lettenhove mansion on his eighteenth birthday. 

“You know,” Geralt’s voice sounds even more hoarse. “Yennefer could help you get rid of them.”

“I know,” Jaskier says, getting into the tub. “But I don’t wanna.”

He needs to get rid of the welts on his mind at first. As a bard, Jaskier used to make the reality look prettier in the listeners’ eyes, building up his character back from ruins, using his casual affairs like bricks, traveling from one bed to another as if this would help him clean his name. There’s no Lettenwhore anymore, now there’s just Jaskier. Jaskier, whose tragic story is now a public domain. Jaskier, who might go and drown himself in the nearest pond in the dead of night.

Geralt pours a bucket of icy cold water on Jaskier’s head. 

“Hey!”

“Sorry.”

Geralt doesn’t sound like he’s sorry. He just adds,

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“About what?” Jaskier glances at him, almost curious. 

Assumptions rush through his brain, a thousand miles per second, what is this, an offer, a joke, something yet undiscovered, he can’t stop thinking, about to start spitting the questions, until…

Until there’s Geralt’s rough palm right between his thighs. All the words die on the tip of Jaskier’s tongue, he splashes the water out of the tub in surprise as the hot wave of excitement makes his blood flow all the way down from his head to another sensitive part of his body. 

***

Jaskier strums the lute, lazily, the sheet covers him from the waist down. Geralt, naked as well, lies next to him, bundling up the pillow under his head, white hair loose and damp. They had to wash themselves again after their time _together_ , but a cool water felt just right on their sweaty bodies. 

“Through lily-strewn rivers you dive. Yet one day I will know your truths,” Jaskier sings. “If only I am still alive...”*

It seems that Geralt has literally fucked his problems away, leaving only a sweet nothing. 

“Where are we going tomorrow?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt’s loud snoring is the only response. 

“Nice, yeah, I get it. I’m in.”

With a chuckle, Jaskier lays the lute on the floor, slides deeper under the covers and turns his back to Geralt’s.

And falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> * elusive, one of jaskier's ballads from the books.  
> \---  
> thanks for reading!!


End file.
